


Defeated By You

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Anal Plug, Anxiety, BDSM, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Impact Play, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rough Sex, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve been prompted many times to write a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/923154">Going Under</a>, so here it is.  This is very dark. Please heed the warnings, and read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/923154">Going Under</a> first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defeated By You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Defeated By You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7263946) by [wwspecial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wwspecial/pseuds/wwspecial)



> This sequel contains: sub!Kurt/dom!Blaine, BDSM, binding, anxiety attacks, night terrors, plugging, flogging, breathplay, rough sex, pushed boundaries, rape/assault play, slapping, and choking.
> 
> The crux of this story is a rape role play, explicitly as stated. The role play is consensual but be aware that it is played out in full detail, including physical and verbal assault, the presence/threat of a weapon, slut shaming, homophobic language, and forced penetration. Happy ending, of course, because my boys always work it out and satisfy each other’s needs (soulmates even when it’s super kinky!), but the content is harsh and the journey rough so please do not expect anything less.
> 
> Dedicated to [Cee](http://bordering-on-the-avant-garde.tumblr.com/), who helped a great deal.

He hears the sound of the kitchen sink running, feels the empty spot next to him in bed and knows immediately that Kurt is not okay. It's a combination of factors that registers as clearly as the sound of a baby crying or the smell of something burning or a washing machine rocking off-cycle from being overloaded. It doesn't take deep thought or context to alert him; he just knows. He's on his feet before he even fully wakes up, spine going straight and pulse racing. He just needs to see Kurt to know whether it's bad or Bad and then he can calm down, can just be _Dom_ without all of the associated, aching concern that comes with _partner_.

Kurt only does this in the middle of the night when he's had the nightmare, so Blaine isn't surprised to find him bent over the kitchen sink, buried up to his forearms in the streaming tap. The white noise of the water combined with the spill of it over his skin is calming and always has been, especially if the water is exceptionally cold or hot (depending on the season), and getting up in a panic to shove his hands under the faucet while bending over it with his eyes closed and his breathing regulated has always been one of his healthiest coping methods.

Blaine approaches quietly, leans his hip against the counter and gives Kurt the time to notice that he's there before he reaches out and puts one hand between Kurt's shoulder blades.

"Kurt?"

Kurt whimpers, presses his forehead against the neck of the faucet. His shoulders tremble under Blaine's hand.

"Can't talk?" Blaine asks, trying again.

Kurt shakes his head.

He considers his options. He thinks that asking Kurt to change position when he's this panicky would be too much. He sees the open bottle of anxiety medication on the counter, asks Kurt if he's taken a dose, gets a nod, and discards that option. Kurt had jerked at his touch, so physical enclosure is not on the table. There's more or less only two things left, then—either he just stands there and hopes that his presence calms Kurt down, or—

"Baby? Would you like me to get your binder?"

"Please," Kurt whispers. It's barely heard over the noise of the running water, but Blaine catches it.

"Just the top binder, or do you need the leg and the ankles?"

"Top."

"I'll just be a second. Keep breathing like that for me, okay?"

He doesn't rush. Any rapid movement or return anxiety on his part would just make Kurt worse, and that is not something that he wants to happen, even though he feels just as upset as he always does when Kurt has a nightmare or a panic attack. Upset or unshaken, though, his emotions are all for Kurt—how can he help, how can he fix it, how can he be what Kurt needs in that moment.

The binders are nothing fancy, just elastic material similar to body bandages only much nicer looking, made from extra fabric from Kurt's workroom. At first glance you'd have no clue what they really were, and that's sort of the point.

At the sink Blaine helps Kurt stand up straight, though he stubbornly keeps his hands buried in the water up to his wrists. Blaine doesn't speak as he wraps the tight fabric around Kurt's torso and upper arms, fixing the little hooks along his biceps. There are several rows so that the binder can be tightened or loosened. He chooses the second tightest row.

"More or less?" he asks, when he's close to done.

"Good," Kurt says, sounding just a fraction less frightened. "Hug?" he asks, taking his dripping hands from the water.

 _Oh, thank god_ , Blaine thinks. _Not so bad_. He stands there behind Kurt at the sink, wraps his arms around Kurt's waist and essentially holds him up, arms bound tightly to his chest from his shoulder to his wrists, and lets the fear roll through him in waves. He loses track of how long they stand there, swaying naturally on their feet, until Kurt is putty against his chest, weighing down his arms as he goes progressively less rigid.

Finally, Kurt breathes, "Turn off the sink?" and Blaine does, then quickly finds Kurt's waist again.

He's sweat through his t-shirt and the hair along the nape of his neck and temples is soaked with it, but the pulse throbbing at his throat is slower now, less panicky, and his eyelids have begun to slowly rise and fall again instead of just stay still and then flicker fearfully every few seconds. Blaine checks his heartbeat, accepts the improvement in tempo though he'd like more, and then gently, gently presses his lips to the rise of Kurt's right shoulder.

"Same or different?" he asks.

"Same, but I hallucinated a little," Kurt says, and Blaine winces.

The rape dream combined with the half-waking visual hallucinations of shapes and shadows that Kurt sometimes experiences is probably the worst thing he's ever had to endure; the two were separate until he and Blaine moved in together, but as of late they've begun to shift together, forming layers of fear and panic and physical shock both during sleep and on the cusp of it.

Blaine knows that blaming himself is neither the solution nor an explanation, but he worries. He is no longer Kurt's doctor, but Kurt's current doctor hasn't seemed to help—he's on his third combination of meds in two years, and his sessions aren't accomplishing anything more than the pills are.

Blaine can't help but think, some days, that Kurt isn't telling him something. It's driving him crazy. They had been so perfect in the beginning—they'd dated, had sex like teenagers, moved in together after an acceptable length of time, and Kurt had even landed a new job that was so much less stressful. But then the dreams and nightmares began again, with the addition of night terrors, so much worse than just the dreams themselves.

"I didn't feel you move," Blaine admits. Typically, during a terror, Kurt will flail in bed, or shoot up and try to move out of it, and Blaine has trained himself to feel that almost instantly.

"I broke out of it," Kurt says, voice slow and measured, as if every syllable requires effort. "Before it really started. It was just—spots, little ones, around my head, not—not so bad. I just needed the water, that's all. Didn't want to wake you."

"I want you to wake me," Blaine replies, voice trembling. "No matter how bad or not bad it is."

"I know," Kurt says. "Sometimes I can't think when it happens."

Blaine tightens his arms. "Do you want to go back to bed like this?" He presses his lips to Kurt's neck, breathing warm over his clammy skin. "I could put you under—"

Kurt shakes his head. "Too jumpy for that. Can I just sleep in my binder? Just—keep touching me?"

"Of course, sweetheart," Blaine says, chest jangling with inadequacy and pain.

He lies awake half the night, tracing the tight weave of the binder under his fingertips while Kurt falls into an exhaustion and medication induced sleep. He knows that he should be more proactive, should already be planning, but just seeing Kurt's face go smooth and feeling his breathing grow deeper is enough in that moment to relieve him. His cheeks go warm with pleasure watching Kurt lie there wrapped up so neatly, clearly comforted by the snug hold of the material around his limbs and Blaine's fingers threaded through his.

At least he can be here for this.

 

*

 

It's not every day. It's just often enough for Blaine to never quite manage forgetting about it. Most of the time, they live a perfectly average life: they go to work, come home, eat dinner. Go out with friends, go to the movies, go grocery shopping, go to the dentist. They laugh and have sex and joke around and dance in their underwear and repaint the walls and rearrange the furniture.

Unlike other couples, though, they also have a closet dedicated to more complicated items. Bondage equipment and toys and all the things that go along with that—harnesses and benches, salves and lotions, all safely kept behind a privacy lock because sometimes their little gatherings get rowdy and Kurt doesn't want to risk their friends finding their most private belongings.

The truth is, half of it hasn't been used. In the beginning they'd selected everything with an eye toward "possibility"; Kurt had desperately wanted a variety of things at their fingertips should the mood strike, convinced that if they planned too much, talked about it too much, it would just become routine.

Blaine is surprised to find him sitting on the carpet in front of one of the chests in their toy closet one weekend, rifling through it with his tongue between his teeth. The room smells like warm leather.

There is a vast difference between post-panic-attack-submissive Kurt and every day submissive Kurt, and Blaine can see that today it's the latter, so he just sits cross-legged on the carpet beside Kurt, tugs a scarf from the depths of the chest and playfully hooks it around his neck.

"See something you like?" he asks, smiling. It's Saturday evening and he's relaxed and Kurt hasn't had a nightmare all week. It's a good time to be playful.

Kurt has a variety of items spread around him, but four different kinds of floggers directly in front of him, and Blaine feels the back of his neck go hot. They've never used the floggers before. That Kurt is doing this, displaying them like that, means that he maybe actually wants to, and Blaine is instantly aware, his back going straight even as his cheeks go red.

There are a few sets of heavy duty wrist restraints and matching ankles restraints, a few they've used on the bed but not often. Kurt is so easy when he wants to go under, sometimes all it takes is Blaine's body weight or Blaine's hands holding him in place, and the interest currently displayed on his face is new.

"Kurt, talk to me. What's up?" he asks, again.

"I think we need to talk about this stuff," Kurt says. He doesn't sound upset, just—like he wants to be heard correctly. Blaine is all ears.

"Absolutely. What's on your mind?"

"I've been thinking a lot lately about what we've made a habit of using and not using," he says, looking up at Blaine. "Some days it's—because I need it. Some days it's because I want it." He goes pink. "Some days it's because if I don't get it I literally can't function and that's—that's not need, that's _survival_ , for me." Blaine swallows thickly. Kurt's eyes are so green that they're almost like chips of jade, and so intense that Blaine finds inhaling difficult. "But there are—consistencies."

"Okay," Blaine says, embarrassed when it comes out broken. He clears his throat. "Such as?"

"Last week when you cuffed me to the headboard and made me fuck you with just my body for leverage, the bruises around my wrists were so bad that they didn't heal for days. I wore long-sleeved shirts to work but someone noticed and asked me if everything was okay."

"Oh my god, Kurt, I'm—"

"No, no," Kurt interrupts, breathing unevenly through parted, damp lips. "No, it's okay. I just made a joke about losing my fuzzy handcuffs and it blew right over. But I was so—excited, that someone had noticed, that it was obvious enough, severe enough to be noticed—I went into the bathroom and rubbed my wrists and got so hard that I couldn't come back out for twenty minutes."

"You came to visit me for lunch that day," Blaine says, remembering how Kurt had dragged him to a motel even though they'd only had forty-five minutes, had begged Blaine to cuff him and fuck his mouth and not let up until he'd made himself come in his pants just from rubbing against them.

Kurt blushes, smiling warm and soft, fingertips sliding over Blaine's thigh. "That was a really excellent lunch."

Blaine laughs, ducks his face and watches Kurt's fingers. "Haven't had a better one since."

"My point is," Kurt says, taking a breath, "I _floated_ that day. And I haven't had a nightmare since. I think—I think I like pain, and the marks that result from receiving it, more than I thought I did when we first started talking about this stuff." He fingers his right wrist, where there is still the faintest bit of color difference from the bruises. "I don't mean that I want to be damaged, I just—I enjoy it. It feels good, and after it feels even better, and when there are marks I'm reminded constantly of it, of you taking care of me, and—it's good. It lasts. It feels better than the haze I get from the pills."

Blaine gently wraps his fingers around Kurt's forearm to slow him down. "I'm hearing you. As a disclaimer, though? Pills aren't the only thing that you can develop a dependence on. I want to give you everything you're asking for, baby, but I want us to be careful."

"I know," Kurt answers, sliding their fingers together. "I've talked about dependence a lot in session since we got together, and I want to be careful, too. But this is—something that we can do together, safely. It's not chemical, at least not made in a factory practically engineered to be addictive chemical, and we already have all the tools."

It's frightening and exciting all at once, and Blaine knows that they need to go into details, but all that he can manage to ask at this moment is, "Tell me what you want?"

And when Kurt replies, breathless and flushed, "I want you to flog me," Blaine's pupils blow wide and his thoughts scatter like ants under a magnifying glass. All he can see in that split second that it takes for his heart to catch up to his thoughts is Kurt's pale, long, muscled back spread out in front of him, a sea of milky white just waiting for—

 _Oh, god_. He glances down at the floggers, at their braided handles and soft, supple tails, and his body cinches with an arousal so hot that he's afraid he's going to embarrass himself.

He stares into Kurt's equally wide eyes. The desire between them is palpable, simmering like a liquid they're both floating in, and Blaine can't stop himself from reaching out, cupping Kurt's flushed cheek and drawing a line across his trembling mouth.

"You want to," Kurt says, reading him effortlessly. "You do."

"I've done it before, once or twice, at clubs, got some pretty solid training at the same time," Blaine answers, the words not what he really wants to say because those experiences had been clinical compared to the way that Kurt makes him feel. At the time they'd felt like everything the scene had to offer—now he knows better. There is nothing like the love-infused intimacy that comes with this level of trust. Nothing.

"But you want to do it with me," Kurt insists, and all at once he's climbing into Blaine's lap, straddling his thighs and kissing into the hair at his temple before biting down on the flushed curve of his ear. "You want to bring those lashes down on my skin, watch the welts swell up—listen to me cry out," he says, kissing down Blaine's neck as Blaine grows hot under his touch. "Oh, god, I want it so badly." He ruts forward, grinding against Blaine. "Please. Please, can we?"

Blaine has Kurt's hips under his hands and he uses the leverage to push them apart, just an inch or two. He takes Kurt's jaw in his hands. "We have to talk first. Pick the one you want, and we'll discuss how much you want. You need to understand that you may change your mind once we're doing it, and that that's okay." He'd witnessed subs at the club try to do too much, too fast, only to learn that pain can be surprising and sometimes unpleasant when you aren't prepared for how quickly it can escalate.

So they talk. They discuss suede versus rabbit versus deer versus elk and decide on elk (suede or rabbit is the typical starter but Kurt wants a bit of an edge and elk is perfect for that, versatile with a soft feel, a slight sting and a good weight). They discuss aftercare—Kurt is adamant about wanting to feel the pain, but Blaine knows what endorphin drop can do (one moment high on pain, the next just plainly _in_ pain), so they agree on lotion and ice packs as a requirement.

"I've never touched your back before," Blaine says. "It's going to hurt and the hurt will last, even if at the time it just feels amazing to you."

Kurt's one request is that they not plan it too far in advance. He doesn't want it to feel clinical. So Blaine leaves the two floggers—both elk, one single, one double—and the restraints on top of the chest, puts the lotion in the bedside drawer and the ice packs in the freezer. He goes to Home Depot after taking some measurements, buys hardware, and installs bases for hook restraints in the doorway between their bedroom and the en suite bathroom (easily covered up by decorative panels), and they just—let the topic float.

 

*

 

Kurt comes home from work late one night, straddles Blaine's lap at the kitchen table, kisses him and spits out, "This plug is driving me nuts," with a pronounced wiggle of his perfect ass.

Blaine grins, sets his tablet down and runs his hands along Kurt's back, edges his fingertips past the waistband of Kurt's tailored slacks and gently grasps his left cheek. "You kept it in for me, though?" he asks, circling the plastic base of the toy buried inside of his gorgeous boyfriend with two fingertips.

"Yes, sir," Kurt answers playfully, pressing their foreheads together. "I am starving, though." Eating solid food and keeping a plug in all day are two things that do not mix, and even though Kurt loves his coffee, the shakes that he drinks on days when he's plugged aren't all that satisfying, and Blaine knows that, which is why they usually end plug days with rigorous fucking and then a really heavy, fattening meal.

"Baked ziti is in the oven," Blaine says, kissing him. "And I think you deserve to come, don't you?" He says this as one might add, _would you like garlic bread with your pasta?_ and begins gently working the plug against Kurt's inner walls, twisting the base of it and wiggling it back and forth. There's a long, quiet moment when Blaine gently removes the plug; Kurt exhales sharply, audibly when it's fully out.

"Please, please let me have you inside of me," Kurt sighs, sitting up higher on Blaine's thighs.

Blaine sucks at the pulse pounding at the base of Kurt's throat, then says into his ear, "Take me out of my pants, then turn on my lap, and sit down on my cock. Keep your elbows on the table."

"Fuck," Kurt hisses, fumbling for Blaine's fly. "Yes, please."

After a long day on both their parts getting to indulge in this, satisfy both of their needs, is a treat. Blaine's eyes flutter closed and open again to watch Kurt's long fingers fish him out of his underwear. Kurt strokes him once or twice to get him fully hard and standing, then lets Blaine peel his pants down around his thighs.

"Just that," he says,turning Kurt around. "Just put my cock inside." Kurt is swollen and gaping and slick, and Blaine takes pleasure in the moment before he comes down just watching the dusky brown-tinged pink of his hole gape hungrily empty. His cock aches and he forces out a breath, palms Kurt's pale, perfect ass cheeks apart. "God, baby, you're so pretty. Come on," he says, guiding him down with one hand on the small of his back.

"Oh, god," Kurt whines, working Blaine's thickness inside.

"Elbows," Blaine reminds him.

"Yes, Blaine," he says, then breaks again, whimpering and rocking side to side. "Almost hurts, so sensitive, been rubbing around that thing all day."

Blaine doesn't even have to say _tell me if it's too much_. It's a ground rule. He just slides his hands around Kurt's thick, muscled thighs and pulls him down the rest of the way, earning a soft cry. He knows how Kurt likes it, knows just how hard to go after such a long day stuffed full of the widest plug they own.

"Fuck yourself on it, come on," he growls, swatting Kurt's plump, upturned ass cheek for good measure. "Want you to come, no hands."

"Not going to be a problem," Kurt whimpers, leaning forward on his arms and arching his back, then rutting deeply into Blaine's lap and then forward again. "Prostate so swollen—oh fuck, you're so _thick_ , god, yes, just let me—"

Blaine wraps his free hand around the edge of the table to keep it from sliding around, puts the other on Kurt's hip and holds him, too, even though his feet are planted on the floor. Kurt buries his face in his arm and blindly rocks back and forth, working Blaine's cock over his prostate; the angle is so perfect for this that Blaine isn't surprised when it only takes five minutes or so for Kurt to start whining and stuttering in his movements.

"Unh," Kurt moans, and then again, "unh, unh, oh, god," and he jerks, twists, practically comes up on his heels and then sits down at a rough angle. Blaine drags him in, feels his ass clench, and can see just beyond his heaving ribs the jut of his purple-crowned cock jerk in mid-air. " _Fuck_. Fuck. Fuck. Blaine. Oh god, coming, coming, oh _god_." The shaft of his cock pulses and bobs as he shoots, lush strands of pearly white that hit the tiled kitchen floor with audible _slick slick slick's_. He writhes like a fish through the orgasm, then slumps onto his arms folded on the table.

Blaine kisses his clothed back, so warm that it's radiating body heat through the cloth. "Mm. Perfect. So perfect for me."

"All day," Kurt gibbers, rubbing his ass around Blaine. "Would you—"

Considering the mess on the floor and the timer on the oven, Blaine answers, "Want to come all over that beautiful, stretched hole. Sit up a little for me? Hold yourself open?"

"Oh," Kurt breathes, glancing over his shoulder. He's flushed and sweating and gorgeous. "Oh, yes."

He braces himself higher up on the table, stands so that his ass hovers just inches above Blaine's cock, holding his pale cheeks apart. He knows just how Blaine likes to see him wide open, loves to see his rim puffed up from friction, wrinkled and twitching. It doesn't take long before all there is is the noise of Blaine pulling on himself as he lets the fat head of his cock settle on Kurt's rim.

"Gonna clean up your mess after I come all over you, like a good boy?" Panting. Fist gliding dry and fast around himself, skin on skin, the shushing noise of it the only sound outside of their breathing. Kurt is shaking, fingers trembling from the effort of holding himself up and open, pants around his knees.

"Yes, Blaine," he answers. "Just want your come. Wanted it all day, feeling your plug holding me open, just wanted your beautiful fucking come all over me." He lowers his cheek to the table, spreads his strong thighs and arches his back and _fuck_ , he is the most beautiful thing that Blaine has ever seen. "All yours. Belong to you. Come on me wherever, whenever, I just—love you so much—please—" He's breathing fast, getting worked up again, and Blaine is tipped over the edge by his excitement.

Blaine gasps as the orgasm hits and flutters in waves, as his come sluggishly drools over Kurt's sacrum and drips down his cheeks to puddle along the edge of the divide between them, and then Blaine pulls back an inch, spurts softly and directly into the dark gape of his ass, watching the air bubbles and thicker slickness paint his rim. He doesn't even move to shove any back inside, just watches as Kurt makes himself close up and then open again, slick and messy with it as it drips down his balls. There are beautiful streaks of it all over his ass and lower back and if Blaine could paint he'd give up his entire career in medicine to immortalize Kurt in these moments for the rest of his life.

"Love you," he breathes, overwhelmed. "Love you, Kurt."

 

*

 

Kurt has a night terror—aborted, because Blaine held him as soon as it started and as a result naturally encouraged him out of it early—and the following night he's quiet but not as rattled as he might have been had it come to full fruition. They cuddle on the couch after dinner and cleaning up, and then Blaine presses Kurt down into the cushions under him, pins him on his back with his arms above his head and kisses him until he starts to go under.

It's fast, and Blaine gently taps his cheek. "Are you okay for this right now, love?"

"Can we—" Kurt stares up at him, pupils wide. He's already sliding under. "I want to try the flogger."

They haven't discussed it since. Blaine's heart leaps into his throat. He doesn't want Kurt to see that he's nervous, but he is. He is also powerfully excited, but that doesn't mean it's all positive and he has to be sure.

"You want the restraints, in the doorway, and the elk hide flogger we talked about?"

"The single," Kurt confirms, watching Blaine's mouth move.

"Just as we discussed?" Blaine asks.

"Yes. No counting, just stroke by stroke, and if I'm not happy we stop immediately."

Blaine sits up. He strokes Kurt's jaw, loving it when Kurt remains in position even though he's moved. He smiles—soft, lopsided, loving. He is so lucky to have this man for a partner.

"Strip down to your briefs. Leave them on. Wait for me. I'll strap you in, but I need to get some things first."

He needs a moment alone as much as he needs to get the ice packs that are in the freezer. So he takes his time. He does a few slow laps around the kitchen, gets his breathing under control and ignores the half-mast in his pants as easily as any other time when Kurt has needed him but hasn't needed his dick. He can't deny that he's—thrilled, to be able to try this again. He'd loved giving out much-needed release at the end of a flogger at the clubs, had loved how ecstatic the severe endorphin flood could make a sub. But this isn't just any sub. It's Kurt. His lover, his best friend, his partner. He needs to do this perfectly.

By the time he enters the bedroom he's rock steady. He puts the ice packs on the bed on top of a towel, then turns to find Kurt kneeling in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom, the two pairs of restraints stacked neatly beside him. He puts the bottle of lotion next to the pillows just to give himself that extra moment, and then crosses the room.

"Stand up," he says, and Kurt does. He takes Kurt in his arms, kisses him and gently pets his sides and back until he's loose and returning the kisses with ease, whimpering under his breath. He lifts the restraints and puts them on Kurt's wrists and ankles, and by the time he has Kurt in the doorway Kurt is trembling. "Color?"

"Green," he answers, as Blaine spreads his legs and attaches the ankle restraints to their mounts, tightening and adjusting. "I'm wobbly, and I want this so much. I'm going to tip under on the first stroke, Blaine, I am just so—"

"You may not," he says, attaching the wrist restraints. "Stay alert for me in any case, okay?" He steps back after adjusting them, tilts his head, then adjusts some more, until Kurt is a perfect human x-shape in the doorway. He's stunning like this, pale and beautiful, his musculature stretched but not to its limit. He looks comfortable, as if he were meant to be placed like this, meant to be spread out for all to see. Even shackled, his pride of and comfort with his body shines through.

"Are you comfortable?" Blaine asks, stroking Kurt's spine from top to bottom, bottom to top. "There should be some give, because you're going to move around a lot."

"It's good," Kurt answers.

"Like I said, I'm going to use the single tonight, okay? More control."

"Yep. Okay."

His fingers are steady when he lifts the flogger but his body is throbbing, for lack of a better term. He can feel his heartbeat in every inch of himself, and he stands there with the tail of the flogger dangling down his leg, unable to deny that with the hide in his hand he feels powerful. Kurt's trusts envelops him like a warm blanket. He twists the handle against his palm, gets a feel for the spring and give of it, and whips the tails out neatly to make sure that there are no tangles.

"Do you want a gag or a blindfold?" he asks.

"No," Kurt replies. "Not tonight."

He gently drags the soft, supple tails over Kurt's shoulders, and earns an audible inhale. "If you don't like it, we'll stop." He pauses, drags the hide the other way, lets the tails dangle down Kurt's flushed, trembling back. He presses his lips to Kurt's earlobe, bright red under his mouth, "If you like it, I want you to show me. You don't have to speak but I want to hear you, okay? Let it out. There's a reason there's a half mile between us and the next house." Kurt smiles, and that's good. "Are you ready?" Kurt nods.

Blaine sets his feet and braces himself and lets his forearm feel the weight of the toy—it's light, single-handled, not nearly as heavy as some of the toys he's wielded before, and that makes him comfortable. He brings his arm back, lopes the tail diagonally left to right in a light slash down over Kurt's back. The patter of the hide on flesh is beautiful—a soft layered smack as each individual tail hits, and pink springs up in streaks down Kurt's back. He barely flinches, but he does exhale loudly, and his shoulders bunch and his toes curl. Blaine sucks in an aroused breath and does it again, a little harder.

"Blaine," Kurt whimpers.

And again, and again, rapid criss-crossing, differing stroke direction and placement with every fall of his arm. The rhythm is hypnotic. Kurt shifts under the lash and then moans as the marks grow darker and raise higher. His body begins to curl inward, then stretch out as if to escape the pain, then inward again, crying out every time the tails meet his skin with a soft staccato snap. Blaine sweats and grows so hard that he has to undo his pants just to be able to comfortably continue.

By twenty strokes, Kurt's back is a beautiful map of barely-there redness, and he's swaying in the restraints. Blaine stops. He circles around to check Kurt's pulse and breathing and pupils; Kurt is soundly under, mouth soft with relaxation, eyelids lifting lazily.

"How's my baby boy doing?" Blaine asks, kissing Kurt's cheeks.

"So good," Kurt murmurs, wrists flexing. "I love you."

Blaine smiles. Kurt is a sentimental mush when he goes under, sometimes, and he doesn't remember anything he says from minute to minute while there, so Blaine has never really been about to playfully embarrass him about it later.

He inspects the marks—they're pink, streaked red at the contact points and swelling up fast, but there's no broken skin and he hadn't caught any bad angles. He breathes a sigh of relief and just lingers, tracing the marks with his fingertips and then letting himself taste a few of the lighter ones near Kurt's neck with the tip of his tongue.

Kurt moans, back bending.

"Are you hard?" he asks, stroking Kurt's ribs.

"Yeah," Kurt answers, sounding far away. "'M'wet."

Blaine flushes, reaches around and feels that Kurt has indeed dribbled pre-come all over the front of his underwear, which is unusual for him. He has let go so beautifully tonight, and Blaine hasn't even really started.

"Could you," he says, whining softly when Blaine squeezes him through his underwear. "Do more?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, please."

Giving the welts time to swell will make any stroke after more painful, so Blaine isn't sure that Kurt will like it, but he begins again as requested, adding a little more muscle as he builds speed. Kurt twists, goes up on his toes, his arms glistening with sweat as he takes it.

_Swish, cross, swish, criss, swish swish swish slap slap._

"Color?" Blaine asks.

"G-gree-n. Please." His voice is wrecked and his ass is clenched and he's writhing into nothing and Blaine can't deny the thrill of pushing him, of seeing his back criss-crossed with red, blotchy patches. It's beautiful; the color and the way they've fallen, it's so fucking _beautiful_.

He does another round, harder still (Kurt sobs) and another (Kurt arches forward) and another (Kurt stiffens and cries out) and doesn't stop, letting the soft tails fall again and again and again once a second, once every other second, until his arm begins to burn.

"Color?" he asks again.

One of the welts had fallen on top of another welt and Blaine watches it bead up dark and red, almost to the point of bleeding but not quite there because the skin is still in tact, and he's momentarily breathless with concern, and stops, stepping close to inspect Kurt's skin.

Kurt whimpers into the charged silence, "I—came in my—oh, my god, Blaine, I can't—"

"Do you want to stop?"

"Yes," Kurt answers, twisting, "please, touch me."

He puts the flogger down and wraps his arms around Kurt's middle from the front, avoiding touching his back, letting Kurt's head come down to tuck into his neck. He strokes Kurt's half-softened cock, nudging his soiled underwear down.

"Oh, oh," Kurt moans, and spills several little jolts into Blaine's hand, "oh, god, don't stop."

Blaine reaches around, presses his hand against Kurt's dry hole and perineum and jerks Kurt off with his other hand, patient, for minutes and minutes, until he spills again, sobbing, his face tear-streaked and his body a sweating and flushed.

Even after two orgasms and a hundred or so lashes, he's still under. Blaine lets him recover, then takes him out of the restraints. He can stand but he's wobbly. Blaine gets him onto the bed, puts a thin towel over his skin and then places the ice packs over that.

He sits beside him on the bed, takes his face into his lap, and that's when Kurt cracks. It's just a sniffle at first but it only takes a moment for that to morph into tears that Kurt has no control over. Blaine strokes his hair and lets the initial burst taper off.

When he's sniffling again Blaine rotates the ice packs, checks the swathes of reddish pink for any skin breakage and, finding none, asks, "On a scale of one to ten, how's the pain?"

"Ten," Kurt says, nasally. "The ice is good." He still sounds a little out of it.

"Lotion, maybe?"

"Um. Maybe once I get cleaned off?"

Blaine smiles. "Lie down on your belly?" He keeps contact with Kurt's skin even as they rearrange, kneeling and then lying down on the bed between Kurt's legs. "Lift up?"

When he's just slightly up on his knees, Blaine peels off his underwear, gently licks the tracks of come and sweat from his skin, making him whine and shift around, and then actually cleans him with a damp towel.

"Mm," Kurt hums as Blaine uses his ass for a pillow. "Feels good."

"You surprised me," Blaine says, stroking Kurt's hips and lower back. He can just see the patches of raised skin beneath the edge of the towel, and he has to admit that it's turning him on. But it's not the time for that, either. "You did so well."

"Remind me of that when I spend the whole weekend complaining?" Kurt asks dryly, sounding more conscious and significantly more sarcastic.

Blaine laughs. "Will do, sweetie."

The aftercare is lengthy and sexless; Blaine makes sure that Kurt is comfortable and they stay up for hours talking. Blaine brings him water and makes sure that he takes small sips, swaps ice packs until the advisable time period for ice on skin is up, then applies a layer of lotion just before wrapping him in the softest, lightest t-shirt he owns. Blaine never goes far, never lets Kurt out of touching range when they're on the bed, and they fall asleep with Kurt as the little spoon.

 

*

 

But things get—intense, after that.

For one, Kurt takes to it faster than Blaine had ever imagined possible. They end up doing some kind of marking/pain-related sex play at least once a week now, whether it's flogging or paddling or spanking. Sometimes Kurt does under and sometimes he doesn't; sometimes he's breathless with needing it, sometimes it's just because he wants to enjoy it lazily. This isn't necessarily a bad change, it's just a sudden one, and Blaine finds himself wondering if it's the best choice considering how awful Kurt's dreams have been lately.

Kurt does seem to have fewer nightmares and almost no terrors, at least none intense enough to scare him conscious, but one evening Blaine wakes up in the middle of the night to find Kurt half-awake beside him, moaning and thrashing. If it's a nightmare, it's a hell of an erotic one, judging by the pillow Kurt has between his legs—two pillows, actually, snug with his pink, swollen cock between them, his underwear discarded and his pelvis hammering away.

Why hadn't Kurt nudged him awake? That's not like him.

"Kurt?" he asks, softly. If Kurt is dreaming, Blaine doesn't want to shock him awake.

But he isn't. He moans, "Blaine," and reaches out blindly, and Blaine catches his hands.

"Baby, what's wrong?" He's awake, but that doesn't mean he's fully cognizant, either.

"Please," Kurt gasps, tugging at his arm.

"Talk to me. Tell me, honey. Was it a dream?"

"Yeah," Kurt replies, tugging harder still. "I—need you."

Blaine stares—there's an uncapped bottle of lubricant down near Kurt's thigh, and wet all over Kurt's ass, staining the back of his t-shirt in places. Normally, Blaine would be on him in a heartbeat, but he looks almost crazed right now.

"Please don't talk anymore," he begs, rolling onto his back and dragging Blaine on top of him. "Fuck me. I need you to fuck me."

He's awake now. Blaine is unsettled but doesn't see any real reason to deny him. He reaches for the lubricant, but Kurt just kisses his neck and pushes his boxers down around his thighs.

"Don't," he says, raspy and desperate. "There's enough."

"You got more on your skin than your—"

"Fuck me," Kurt whimpers, wrapping his legs around Blaine's hips.

It's as intoxicating as it is frightening, staring down at that twisted, wanting face. At Kurt's thighs, milky and softly furred, spread open around him. Kurt is so hard that it looks painful, the crown of his cock engorged and shiny. He tries to feel between Kurt's cheeks but Kurt just whines and twists and presses up and so he gives in, lines himself against Kurt's hole and pushes. It's—tacky. Much drier than usual, and Kurt is painfully tight.

"Kurt, you're," he pants.

"Hold me down," Kurt groans.

"How?"

"My arms, my chest, just, be rough," he says, and Blaine's cock throbs and his pulse races and he reacts before he can think, wanting to give Kurt what he's asking for. He grips Kurt's forearms roughly, pushes them into the mattress, then presses his chest down and over Kurt's, pins him to the bed and fucks up between his cheeks. It takes longer than usual, getting inside of him, and the grip is so tight that it almost hurts. Blaine is positive that it's hurting Kurt, too, but Kurt won't let go, won't stop fucking down against him.

Blaine presses his face into Kurt's throat and feels it contract and expand with huffy, frantic breathing as he buries himself all the way. He digs his fingers around Kurt's wrists hard enough to bruise, feels Kurt struggle to inhale because their chests are pressed so tightly together.

"Fuck me," he repeats, and then, even more breathlessly, "hurt me. Fucking hurt me, Blaine."

In the darkness, with Kurt's ass throbbing too snug around him, with Kurt's strong, long body practically begging to be overwhelmed beneath him, a very animalistic part of Blaine's brain simply screams do it, _he is actually asking you to do it, so do it_ , and he—gives in. He knows that Kurt is perfectly capable of recognizing his own limits. He—trusts Kurt, and so despite his misgivings, he gives in. Something switches on in his brain, an all too basic desire to take what is on offer and not question the motive.

He twists Kurt's wrist bones under his fingers until Kurt cries out in pain. He knows the bruises will be terrible, but he does it anyway. He shoves Kurt's legs, Kurt's pelvis, higher under his, roughly. He bites Kurt's neck, knowing how deep the teethmarks will go. He fucks Kurt like an animal, heedless of the lack of a smooth glide, knowing that every other whimper is a whimper of pain and not pleasure.

When Kurt's cock stays rock hard between them, grinding along their bellies, he bites down on Kurt's earlobe and hisses, "You like that?" He can feel the shaft of Kurt's cock throb. "Like me fucking you like this?"

"Please," Kurt moans.

"Say it," Blaine murmurs, going with it, feeling the arousal hum through Kurt's body, "Say you like my cock splitting you open."

"I—like—your cock—" He gasps when Blaine goes deep, twists his face to the side, and a tear streaks down the side of his face and all it does is make Blaine _harder_. "—your cock splitting me oh—open."

Blaine loses it, somewhere between hissing those words and coming.

Kurt begs, "Slap me."

He knows he shouldn't, but he's already doing this. Without missing a beat he slaps Kurt's face, just enough to make a small crack resound between them; not even hard enough to leave a mark, but he does it.

"Don't stop fucking me, do—do it again," Kurt says.

He has no clue what the fuck they're doing, but he does it again. Slaps that beautiful alabaster cheek, throws Kurt's legs over his shoulders and fucks him into the headboard, heedlessly, even when his head starts getting dangerously close to the hard surface. His hand naturally travels down from Kurt's face, closes around his throat and squeezes—just enough to make him feel it.

"Blaine," Kurt moans, "yes."

He locks his thumb under Kurt's Adam's apple, then shifts higher, cradles the softest part of his throat and squeezes harder. "Want me to choke you?" Kurt's only answer is a frantic nod, and so Blaine does it, cuts off Kurt's breathing and fucks him, and fucks him, and fucks him. When he lets go Kurt's throat is ringed with finger marks, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

Blaine slaps his face again, on the other side, sits up for better leverage, hauling his legs up, dragging his ass off the mattress and pushing deeper inside of him, almost bending him in half.

“Don't,” he growls, when Kurt moves his arms; he grabs them and pushes them down along Kurt's sides, Kurt's legs going wobbly around his shoulders. He pins Kurt's bruised forearms to the bed and lets the sticky grab of Kurt's hole drive him over the edge. He comes hard, shuddering through every pulse.

The aftermath is horrific. Once the endorphins stop rushing his system he just lies there, Kurt a boneless mess of limbs, bruises, and bite marks under him. Even in the weak moonlight he can see all of them, can see that Kurt is covered in them. The only things breaking up the picture are the ropes of come all over his chest and belly—he must have come with or shortly after Blaine. His eyes are slitted, satisfied in a dark way that makes Blaine falter, unsure of himself.

And all at once, it is most spectacularly not okay.

He does something he should not do, but it's too late to be rational; he gets up, goes to the bathroom and sits on the toilet, unable to breathe the same air as Kurt for a moment longer. He feels like his chest is going to collapse, and shapes similar to Kurt's night terror hallucinations snapping in front of his vision. He forces himself to breathe.

He's surprised when Kurt comes to him ten minutes later, knocking softly on the door, shattering his hard-won mental silence.

"Come in."

Seeing Kurt in the full light of the bathroom is a shock. His face is red from being slapped. His neck is ringed with Blaine's hand print. His arms are covered in bruises of varying colors and shapes and sizes from wrist to elbow. His thighs have marks that Blaine doesn't even remember making, and his ass is a mess of lubricant and come.

It's not like him to not care about all of that, to stand there like that without moving to clean up, and still Blaine can't breathe.

"Did I make you bleed?" he forces out, still feeling like there's a boulder set on his chest.

"What?"

He stares at Kurt, anger welling up inside of him. "Did I make you fucking bleed, Kurt? Anywhere? Inside?"

"No," Kurt exhales, sitting down on the bathroom rug without breaking eye contact. "No, you didn't."

"That was not okay," he says, letting the words come without thought. If he thinks right now, he's going to say things that he'll regret.

Silence, and then, "I know."

"We did not discuss that kind of play. You never asked for it, we never set boundaries—you never _asked_."

"I know," Kurt repeats, and Blaine can't stop looking at his wrecked skin.

The very worst part of it is that Blaine, on some unconscious level, had enjoyed that. He'd enjoyed being aggressive, enjoyed giving in to Kurt's inappropriate, boundary-free requests. He'd enjoyed taking complete control and using Kurt, who had so obviously wanted to be harmed.

Blaine curls up into a ball, sinking his fingers into his hair and his elbows onto his lap.

"You violated our trust," he breathes, miserable. "Why? Tell me why this happened tonight, what need did that satisfy?"

Kurt whimpers just once before his face goes still. He bites his bottom lip, bows his head and begins to rock a little, hands shifting nervously.

Blaine can feel control skidding away from him like ping pong balls spinning across sleek ice. He himself is compromised, but he has to collect those ping pong balls and do something smart before this completely blows up. That is his job. He is Kurt's Dom.

"Collar and ropes, right now," he says, standing shakily. "I want you calm and I want you still and we are going to fucking talk about this."

It's like a walk of shame, that trip to the closet. Kurt doesn't need to be told to crawl; he just does, right behind Blaine the whole way. Blaine snaps him into a thick leather collar that has two small metal rings on either side. He uses a simple nylon rope to bind Kurt from from bicep to wrist, anchoring up his spine and around his shoulders, where he hooks the rope into the collar rings.

"Stay," he says. Kurt kneels in front of him, beautifully pale under the black of the collar and the ropes. "Eyes on the floor. Now close them." Kurt begins to breathe easier, and so does he.

"I am so sorry," Kurt says.

"And I am sorry for allowing you to bulldoze me," Blaine replies. "Now. Why?"

"I've been—lately, the pain has just helped so much, and I—but I'm still having those fucking dreams, and—"

"You always have. What's changed? Why? Again, Kurt, because you're avoiding my question."

"I didn't know how to ask you to do it. I thought if it happened in the heat of the moment—"

"The things we do at home can't always be that way. You know that. This—this stuff is more talk than action half of the time, you _know_ that."

"I violated the rules, I know," Kurt replies, shivering on his knees. "I know."

"Again. Ask me to do what, exactly?"

Kurt flinches. "To rape me."

Blaine's chest goes cold. "What?"

"To—pretend, to rape me." Kurt stares at the rug, bending lower on his knees. "The last few months, the idea has tortured me. Since the beginning, really, just—not as badly. Ever since I saw you let go a little—use the paddle and the flogger and really just, lay into me—I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

"Like what we just did?"

"More," Kurt says, voice breaking. "Like—the real deal. Role playing it. Without any holding back."

Blaine takes a deep breath and then lets it out. He's—speechless. A little sick. A lot disappointed that Kurt hadn't told him this months ago.

"We never discussed that as a possibility," he says.

"It was so disgusting to you that you never even mentioned it as a hard no," Kurt says, sounding disgusted with himself. "It never even occurred to you that I'd be sick enough to want it."

_Oh, Kurt._

"That isn't true. You're not—sick, for wanting it. Maybe if you'd been actually assaulted at some point in your past, maybe then I'd see why—but they're just dreams, Kurt. Fantasies. Darker than most, maybe, but still the product of your subconscious thoughts. You trusted me to guide you through this lifestyle and I have. Why couldn't you have trusted me with this, too?"

Tears crawl down Kurt's cheeks. "I didn't know how to ask."

"On the bed, please," Blaine commands, weariness in his tone. He's—deflating, despite not wanting to, smothered by the weight of what they'd just done and of what Kurt has expressed. It's almost too much for him in that moment. He's done a lot of things that resemble violence in the pursuit of this lifestyle, but he's never role played something that dark and he isn't sure if he could. But the bottom line is that he hadn't been given a choice tonight, and that's wrong.

He watches Kurt crawl to the bed and then settle into a kneeling position on the mattress. The knotting is still beautifully intact around him, and Blaine can't help but appreciate the splashes of color that all the bruising and marks have brought to the milky landscape of his half-naked body.

"Lie down," he says, and then joins Kurt on the bed, lying close enough to share warmth but not touch. Normally, he would not physically withdraw after such an intense scene; but the misbehavior had been so gross and the violation on both sides so complete, that the normal rules simply can't apply.

"Please forgive me," Kurt says.

"I do," Blaine replies, because that is part of moving past unpleasant scenes. "But this isn't something that I'm going to shrug off by breakfast, Kurt. What you did was—painfully unfair. And that I didn't stop you or myself—is not going to leave me, any time soon."

"I understand. I—love you, so much, I just—"

He reaches out, tangles his fingers in Kurt's hair. He's fairly sure that he hadn't touched Kurt's scalp at any point tonight, so that area at least should be bruise free. "There is nothing— _nothing_ —that we can't discuss. You could ask me to do anything imaginable to you and I wouldn't judge you. I'd refuse, but I would not judge you." His voice breaks. "Do you understand me? I love you that much." Kurt begins to shake, and Blaine can't resist putting an arm around his bound body. "It's almost morning. Sleep for an hour or two, and we'll take a look at you. And we'll talk more."

"Okay," Kurt whispers, "okay, Blaine."

 

*

 

In the light of day, everything seems distant and fractured, and Blaine's urge to take care snaps into place just as firmly as the sickness takes hold of his belly. Taking care wins out, as it always does, and he spends the morning going over every inch of Kurt's body and even checking his rectum just to make sure that no lasting damage had been done. Kurt seems whole and fine below the surface; Blaine rotates ice and heat on the worst of his bruises.

It's the conversations that come after that are difficult.

Blaine gets out his old notes from Kurt's original sessions. Still a little unsteady, he makes Kurt go through them. He makes Kurt explain the nature of the role play that he's looking for, every detail, from the setting to the words he wants to hear to the way he wants it to end. Kurt gets so ruffled answering these questions that he has to kneel just to stay calm, but they get through it.

When all is said and done, Blaine feels like he can breathe again. At least they've discussed it, now. At least it's out there between them. The words are on the page, though they are shocking.

"I can't promise that I can do this for you," he says, in the end. "But after the changes we've made recently, I also can't say that it's out of the question, either. You've—" He exhales. "You've altered the part of me that would have found even what we did last night impossible, yes. But to tell you I can, that I will—no. I just can't, Kurt.”

"I understand," Kurt says, there on his knees, looking up at Blaine with those irresistible eyes. "I—don't want there to be any premeditation. If you do it, I mean. No warning. It has to be—as if it were actually happening, so if you never manage to get there, I'll wait. I'll be happy to wait. Just the fact that you're considering it—it means so much to me. And the pain play is enough. I'll make sure it's enough."

And as the months pass, it is. They weave it into their weekends like any other couple might incorporate a shopping trip, and as Blaine grows in confidence and ability, as they expand their toy chest and Kurt learns how to give over completely to the pain and the release that it offers, the dreams and night terrors fade to manageable levels again. He sleeps through the night and, even if some mornings Blaine notices him peel the underwear from his sticky pelvis, or he jerks off in the shower to avoid confessing the nature of his dreams, it's okay; not everything has an easy solution, and Blaine is happy to work through it.

 

*

 

It is true, though, that there's a darker side to Kurt. There always has been. Blaine can't deny that. Since the beginning, he has always been aroused by morbid things. Drawn to violence as a matter of course. Turned on by roughness, by absolute dominance. And no matter what Blaine does, he can't stop thinking about it. They haven't discussed it since and it's driving him insane.

The substitute—largely a lot of rough sex with blindfolds and cuffing—grows on him. He becomes used to the play, to the hints of non-consent, as time goes by, as he learns what it can do for Kurt.

Kurt finds blissful release in the appearance of being forced or roughly handled. The distinction between play and actual non-consent is a firm line for them both in theory, but theory doesn't seem to matter much when Kurt is bound and gagged and riding Blaine's cock with nothing more than the force of his torso's strength and Blaine egging him on with filthy little, "Fucking slut, that's it. Ride my cock, make me come with just your tight ass and maybe I'll let you go, huh?" and on and on, things that Blaine had never imagined he could bring himself to say.

The lines blur.

They attempt breathplay. Blaine has no words for what it feels like to hold Kurt close while squeezing his throat, in complete control of his sub's breathing, starving him for air and then letting the oxygen rush in and flood his body in dizzying ways. The first time that Kurt comes after just such a moment, Blaine fucks his abused mouth and throat until they're both a sobbing mess. Kurt stays on his knees for hours after, licking and kissing at Blaine's soft cock and touching the marks around his throat with awed, pleasured reverence.

Blaine learns better knotting configurations so that he can leave Kurt in the most complicated positions, working his long limbs into comfortable but challenging arrangements and leaving him to his own breathing behind a blindfold or a gag or both for hours at a time. He's a mess afterward but an affectionate one, coming out of subspace with contented groans, kissing Blaine and breathing declarations of love and rubbing the pale knot marks on his skin happily.

They spend more time touching and talking and cuddling during aftercare than ever before, Kurt unfurling beneath him, next to him, on top of him, a level of relaxation that he'd never achieved before, contentment in every line of his pale, muscled body.

The need for extremity seems to fade with practiced repetition of intense scenes. On the surface, it seems as if even Kurt's longing for the one scene that Blaine has never been able to give him is gone. But Blaine knows better. It's still there, just below the surface. It shows in the way that Kurt needs to be alone, put under, or brought to orgasm every time that they accidentally watch a rape scene on television or in the movies.

It's never just sexual—there's something about it that gets to Kurt—emotionally, psychologically, deep down in a place where Blaine can't go. If there's anything that Blaine should be able to grasp, it's the workings of the mind, but without previous assault history he can't guess at why Kurt is so effected, so thoroughly entranced, by this one fantasy. To call it a kink is to grossly oversimplify it, as well as insulting on a variety of levels, and yet—

He just can't define it.

He takes out the notes he'd written that morning after, reading over the scenario that Kurt had detailed, from the shaky start down to the signature and date at the bottom of the bullet points, giving his consent to the role play, and by the time that Blaine finishes reading it his fingers are making the paper shake and he's thinking about it. About what he'd do. When and where and how, and Kurt—

Kurt needs this. Has always needed it.

In the end, it comes down to that, and Blaine has a feeling that it always will.

 

*

 

He tells Kurt that he's going out of town for business for the weekend, packs a bag, and spends the night at a hotel before driving back to the house the following evening. He parks down the road, walks the two miles it takes to get there, and lingers well out of sight of the house itself for a while.

He's spent the entire day getting ready for this—he's wearing the dark clothing and the mask to cover his face. He's been meditation breathing all afternoon, reading and re-reading and memorizing the words that Kurt had asked for. Reminding himself that every single thing that he's about to do are things that Kurt has been dreaming of. Reminding himself that this fantasy had been the inspiration for almost half of their current sex life—everything in the toy chest, every act of pain and binding and dirty talk, every time that Blaine had held Kurt down and fucked him or choked him or spanked his skin red—it's all down to that dream.

The dream that had brought them together in the first place.

If he can do this for Kurt, _with_ Kurt, he'll be fulfilling Kurt's ultimate fantasy of complete release. Complete surrender of control. Fear, and pain, and the threat of harm with a guarantee of no actual harm. Letting go. Really and truly letting go.

Isn't that what he has always wanted to give Kurt?

He approaches the house, his heartbeat already accelerating, Kurt's words spinning in his head.

_I'm alone. That's what matters. No matter where I am, whether it's a parking lot or an underground garage or a car or my own home, I'm alone. Vulnerable. He breaks the lock, opens the door, smashes the window. Whatever it takes to get to me, he does it._

He knows that Kurt is asleep. He doesn't have to break anything to get in, thank goodness, and so he makes his way silently through the house, creeping like a burglar. His pulse is roaring in his ears now. Despite everything, he is excited—powerfully excited, to play a role, to put on a character that Kurt has been longing for, waiting for, for so long.

_He grabs me. I fight him, but he's so strong. He subdues me. Tangles my legs and arms. Something about him just—takes the power from my body. His presence makes no real sense. But whether I like it or not he's there, and all he wants, all he's come for, is me. He wants to use me. He wants to have me, and he doesn't care if I want him back. And there's something remarkably simple about that. But I still fight him._

Kurt is asleep on Blaine's side of the bed, curled up in an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of Blaine's boxer shorts. He's wearing the collar that Blaine had left him in—he always feels better collared when Blaine is away—but other than that it could be any other night at their house.

Standing there at the foot of the bed, everything becomes as clear as glass. It's a role. He can do this. He can take on this persona, for Kurt. For his sub.

So beautiful, the strong, masculine creature curled up on those sheets. Blaine wants him, in a visceral, bone-deep way that requires no translation, no thought. His cock is hard just thinking about that body under his, giving way to his lust. It's all he thinks about as he grabs him.

Kurt is powerful. His arms and legs are like battering rams, and his screams are hoarse and loud. Blaine has never been more grateful that they live in the country.

_No matter what I do, he overpowers me. He doesn't smell or feel or sound like anyone in particular. He always wears a mask, so I never see his face, anyway. Sometimes I'll get a glimpse of his hair, or his skin tone, but never much—he's fully clothed, fully masked the entire time. He drains the fight out of me because it takes a while to get me to stop. But eventually I don't have any energy left to fight him, and he traps me. In a small space or on a bed or on the floor; it doesn't matter where because wherever we are, it's violent. It's going to be that way, whether the surface is hard or soft, familiar or unfamiliar. He doesn't care about me, or my pleasure. He just wants to fuck me, and come inside of my body. It's a single-minded, almost thoughtless goal. And I know. I know it from the minute he grabs me. I know._

It only takes one backhand to Kurt's cheek to take the initial wind out of his sails. After that, he stops kicking, and Blaine sits on his legs, then uses the collar around his throat to slam his upper body into alignment with his lower body. Flat on his back, he's easier to make still.

He's whining and crying and begging under his breath, _please don't do this_ , and _oh god no, no, don't do this to me, please, i'll give you whatever you want_ , and on and on, again and again, battering Blaine's conscious mind with pleas. But Blaine is too far gone. He's inside of this, and he isn't leaving. Not until it's done.

He takes a small knife from his pocket and uses it to slice Kurt's t-shirt open up the front. The glint of the blade and the noise of it tearing the material of his shirt makes Kurt start screaming again. By the time the shirt is split and Blaine has ripped it off of Kurt's torso, Kurt is hiccuping sobs, and Blaine presses the flat of the blade to Kurt's throat and slaps him again.

"Shut the fuck up," he growls.

"Please," Kurt sobs. “No.”

He's pale. The collar is dark around his throat. Blaine rips his underwear down around his thighs, not even allowing himself to look at the swollen erection that is proof of Kurt's pleasure. That doesn't, can't, matter right now. He drags the flat of the blade down Kurt's collarbone, nipples, and ribs, savoring every whimper and frightened twitch.

"Please don't hurt me."

He doesn't. He traces every inch of Kurt's body with the blade, never coming anywhere near pressing it to his flesh but allowing the illusion that he could, might, all the same.

He's so hard that it's _painful_.

_He spits in his hand. Slicks himself and—he fucks me. On my knees, on my belly, my face pushed into a pillow or concrete or gravel or grass or wherever he has me. He's rough, and unkind. He holds my arms and my legs and he snarls nasty things at me and he rapes me, and rapes me, and I hate him, even as I'm hard as a rock for him, even as I come over and over again with his dick pounding my prostate. He leaves me sticky and used and open and full of his come._

He puts his fingers in Kurt's hair. Pulls, tugs, down to the scalp, drags Kurt's shoulders off the bed with the force of it. Uses the leverage to roll Kurt over onto his stomach, uses his knee to shove at Kurt's knees, where he meets resistance.

"Spread your fucking legs," he says, dangerous and low, shoving again, meeting resistance again. So he presses the knife to Kurt's neck, to where the hair meets skin, and adds, "I'll slice your pretty skin open and fuck you anyway, so fucking do it. You might as well enjoy it in one piece, whore."

Kurt is trembling on the bed, his torso wracked with sobbing when he finally lets Blaine shove his thighs apart. Blaine has a bottle of already opened lubricant in his pocket—he can't go so far as to actually, physically hurt Kurt—and he gathers a handful of it silently, quickly, though he mimes the spitting for the sake of Kurt's fantasy, and all the while Kurt cries and begs _no, no, no_ , and Blaine ignores him as he thrashes.

"Bet I don't even need more than spit, huh?" he asks, roughly shoving Kurt's cheeks apart, roughly fingering his dry hole. "Sloppy little hole's probably always open wide, so many fucking cocks been in there, I bet. You fags can never keep it in your pants."

"Not like that," Kurt cries. “Please.”

"Going to fuck your ass until you fucking bleed, slut."

Blaine pushes him up halfway onto his knees, breathing so heavily, so far gone now that he almost can't see in the dark; it's all light pops and shadows and Kurt still fighting him, though weakly now.

He doesn't tease, doesn't wait. He unzips his pants, takes his cock out of his underwear, jacks himself a few times, and pushes his cock into Kurt's ass without warning, though he lets the lubricant hidden in his hand dribble down, lets it get ahead of him and alongside him as he roughly shoves inside. It's still going to hurt, but it'll hurt less as they go, and there won't be any real damage done.

Kurt sobs, arches up along the mattress, trying to escape with a soft, muffled no as Blaine shoves his face into the pillow and slams the rest of the way inside.

"That's it. Shut that mouth and take my fucking cock. All you fags are good for, taking dick. You like it so much, then fucking enjoy it, huh? Yeah. Just like that. Fucking squeeze the come out of me. So fucking tight. Know you want it, don't try to fucking pretend you don't," he recites, overwhelmed, lost in the game, lost to the tight frightened flutter and clench of Kurt's ass around his cock, familiar and yet not at all so tonight.

Kurt is crying, trying to buck him off, but he's clearly exhausted from the game and the exertion, and Blaine knows that he's hard and rocking against the sheets even know, his legs spread wide at their sides and his ass taking a pounding as Blaine fucks him ruthlessly.

"Don't come in me, oh _god_ , I'll do anything just—please don't—"

His back has gone bendy and weak and Blaine wonders how long he's been sinking under. Noticing that rapidly pushes Blaine towards climax—he doesn't know how long he's going to be able to maintain, not now that Kurt's body is giving him up, and he needs to finish this.

He draws out his orgasm when it hits, rises on his knees and fucks Kurt up the bed, roughly spreading those sweating, trembling cheeks and watching the base of his cock pulse as he fills Kurt with his come. He makes himself watch as he softens, the wide girth of his cock easing out of Kurt's swollen hole, followed by a low, wet gush as his come spills out.

"That's right," he breathes, shoving his fingers back inside, making Kurt whimper and clench around them. "Dirty, just like you."

After Kurt collapses weakly to the sheets, curling up into a ball around a pillow, Blaine recognizes the cue. This is where, in the fantasy, Kurt is left alone with his shameful pleasure—the rapist doesn't talk after that, he just leaves. It's the hardest part to play out, strangely enough. Blaine had intended to actually, truly leave—to get in the car, drive back to the hotel and give Kurt the remainder of the weekend to himself, but he can't bring himself to do it; Kurt hadn't specified a time frame for being left alone after, so Blaine chalks his decision up to a technicality. He walks back down the road, gets the car, drives back to the house, kills the engine and sits there in the driver's seat, sticky and numb. The thing is, he can't move. He's frozen there, staring at the house as if he'd arrived at the wrong address.

But he isn't— _it_ isn't—as bad as he'd thought it might be. It had been a difficult role to play, but he'd felt the tremors of release running through Kurt's body. He'd felt Kurt shudder and come. He'd felt how deeply, how quickly Kurt had gone under. How could he ever deny Kurt something that intense? But he is shaken. So he sits there for at least an hour, maybe more, feeling physically gross and emotionally wiped, until the porch lights come on and he watches Kurt, swathed in a robe and pajama pants, cross the lawn.

Something twists inside of his belly. How could he have left Kurt alone for as long as he has?

He's out of the car before he can think of what to say, and Kurt renders even that unnecessary by throwing himself into Blaine's arms. He clings, arms and legs, and Blaine stumbles back into the car under their combined weight and folds Kurt against him and buries his face in Kurt's neck.

"You should be inside," he says, barely aware of the words as they come out. "You're shaking."

"I have never felt that taken apart in my entire life," Kurt exhales into his skin.

"I wish you could explain it to me," Blaine replies.

"You were perfect."

"I feel—like a really unbalanced mix of things right now. I'm not sure if—if I could do that again."

"I think maybe I just needed to know that you could do it, period, " Kurt answers, pulling back to stare at him. "Does that make sense?"

"I don't know," Blaine says. "Maybe. I told you that I would be anything you needed, didn't I?"

"You did," Kurt says, and he's smiling, and Blaine can't stop from kissing him.

They share a shower so hot that they're as red as lobsters afterward, and the funny thing is—they both need the aftercare, so badly that they almost laugh because they don't know where to start.

Kurt says, "Come to bed?"

Blaine is relieved to find that he'd changed the sheets, even down to the pillowcases.

"I keep waiting to feel worse than I do," Blaine admits, curling his body around Kurt's as tightly as Kurt's comes around his. They're both shaken, and Kurt is still glassy-eyed and boneless.

"Me too, sort of?" Kurt says, clinging to him. "I—we talked about it in such detail, I mean the second you grabbed me I knew it was you."

"I didn't—like, treating you like that. But I liked what it did for you. I knew what it was doing, and it was enough to keep me in that place."

"You were amazing." Kurt turns his face to press a kiss to Blaine's jaw. "God, you were—this sounds ridiculous, but you were better than the fantasy, if that's possible."

Blaine can't help but flush at that, even though he still feels about a hundred miles away. "Do you think you might not dream that scenario anymore? Because you acted it out?"

"It's been getting better, the more we explored with the toys," Kurt says, burrowing deeper into his arms. "And I think this will make a difference. I just—think I needed the barriers moved, you know? I needed to know that we could do anything. Literally anything. And that you'd still love me and want me after, even if it were something really difficult."

"I love you and want you more every day, no matter what we do," Blaine whispers, digging his fingers into Kurt's hair.

"I'm okay if you're okay, then," Kurt says, kissing him softly.

"I will be," Blaine promises. "For you. Always."


End file.
